


And The Band Is (Somehow) Still Playing

by cheezybananaz, septicwheelbarrow



Category: X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angry Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Erik and Charles Fail at Communication, Hate Sex, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Light BDSM, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 22:18:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3305417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheezybananaz/pseuds/cheezybananaz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/septicwheelbarrow/pseuds/septicwheelbarrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story of boy meets boy. The boy, Erik Lehnsherr, believes that his marching band is <em>the</em> shite. The other boy, Charles Xavier, shares this belief, but without the three-letter article.</p><p>Erik meets Charles in November. He knows almost immediately he is an utter bastard who deserves a fist to the face. And, maybe, also who he has (not) been searching for.</p><p>--</p><p>“Raven's told me a lot about you. You've always been rich. Spoiled and privileged. You have a trust fund the size of most people's lifetime earnings, and you never have to lift a finger to survive.”</p><p>“I – I don't see how this is related to the topic at hand,” Charles says, hating how uncertain his voice sounds.</p><p>“Oh,” Erik whispers, his breath warm against Charles' lips. “It's related all right.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And The Band Is (Somehow) Still Playing

**Author's Note:**

> For the X-Men Reverse Bang 2015. Art by cheezybananaz, who is wonderful in every way. Eternal gratitude for being awesome and patient and very very accommodating!
> 
> Beta-ed by afrocurl. Thank you for the quick beta! All mistakes are mine.

 

 

Charles has never handled heat well, a testament to his posh pale Oxford upbringing, and it's no different now under the sun currently scorching Gillette. The sky is an expanse of blue. Almost laughingly blue, in fact, a rarity in November with not a cloud in sight. On any other day Charles would be glad of sunshine, trilling a happy sonatina on his violin next to the window with a cup of iced coffee. But now that he's outside the sunshine is an insult – Charles is buried under November clothes, bundled up in a novelty scarf and a dark blue peacoat that straddles the line between posh and pretentious.

He's early to the stadium; the game has not yet begun, and it would be an hour yet until Raven is supposed to perform. With so many minds (uproarious, riotous) it's difficult to track her, and his seat nearest the sideline does not provide him a good vantage point. So he settles with sighing morosely into his seat, periodically looking around for a glimpse of blonde.

“Waiting for someone?” he hears from behind.

Startled, Charles whips around. He's greeted with the sight of a tall, handsome man, smirking and blocking out most of the sun. The man's also wearing a red and black uniform, similar to the outfit Raven has shown him a couple of times.

Charles clears his throat and resettles back into his seat. “Very funny, Raven,” he mutters. “I was wondering where you were.”

“I'm not Raven,” the man drawls.

“No?” Charles quirks his brow, raising his fingers to touch his temple, and then reaches out with his telepathy.

 _Oh, God_ , Charles thinks, two seconds later once his mind delves into the man's – _Erik Lehnsherr –_ and he has to bite his lip to stifle the embarrassing moan that threatens to escape his larynx.

Erik's mind is _incandescent_. Expansive, challenging, loud and brilliant. Only once in a while you come across minds like these, minds who burn without remorse or apology. And Erik's so certain, so passionate – even delusional, perhaps, a personal brand of cynical idealism - it's like Erik's carved out a universe inside himself, and he perceives everything from within that universe and nothing else can measure up. In Erik, Charles sees a man ready to take on the world and win.

And Charles finds himself utterly taken. When he and Raven were little, their old nurse read them fairy tales. In these stories there are princesses and princes who fall in love the moment they laid eyes upon each other. The notion of love at first sight is so _so_ charming, so romantic that even the great Victor Hugo cannot escape the draw, but Charles never believed it to be true. Raven had frowned at him when he said so, because of all the humans in the world wouldn't Charles and his telepathy have the best chance of attaining that elusive dream?

The thing about telepathy, it's not so different from dissection. There's none of that 'desperate, instinctual connection' that magazines catering to romance-seeking non-psionics advocate. Telepathy is a telescope and it only looks one way. There's a reason telepaths stay sane, and that reason has to do with not tying yourself up into emotional connections with people whose beautiful minds are only one-sidedly familiar.

No, Charles doesn't believe in love at first sight. Love is a choice that has nothing to do with beauty. Lust is a much more sensible alternative, and lust Charles knows intimately. Attraction is borne of physiology, the right sequence of firing neurons and neurotransmitter concoctions in the brain – adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin – the combination of which to Charles' telepathy feels like a hot-flash thrill, guzzling bubbly champagne from a waterfall. Lust is a simple, recognisable creature made for one to enjoy.

But once in a while you meet someone whose soul _sings –_ not the way birds do, flitting in and out of the periphery unnoticed, but more like an arrow with a trailing thread, shot straight and embedded deep into your own heart.

 _God,_ Charles repeats, and this time he hears the words tumble out of his mouth. Moments like these it's really difficult to untangle lust from love.

Erik – _his name is Erik_ – stares at him with a shocked expression. “You...” Erik says, and Charles' traitorous mind sings.

“Yes, yes, hi,” Charles stutters, mind snapping back to himself. It's like dousing himself in cold water after jumping into a volcano, the aftershock still leaving cracks in his telepathy's veneer. Charles wills the flush spreading across his cheeks to abate. No such luck. Erik's smirk only grows wider, if that were even possible. He's leapt over the seats and is now standing across Charles.

“Let me take you out to dinner,” Erik says, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too smug for his own good. But he wears his smugness well, and Charles has to gulp.

“Give me one reason,” Charles responds, in the interest of pride.

Then Erik glances down, _mortifyingly,_ at the slowly tenting bulge between Charles' legs. If possible, Erik's grin grows wider, his eyes twinkling invitingly under the sun.

 _It's only been ten seconds!_ Charles wants to scream at his own erection. He coughs and crosses his legs. “Yes, well,” Charles mutters, fumbling for words to say. If it's any consolation, Erik's nowhere near shouting 'pervert' at him and stomping away – in fact, he appears delighted with the proceedings. But Charles would rather not reveal _that_ much about his sexual proclivities to strangers, no matter how attractive they are. “Well,” Charles tries again. “It's just biology.”

“Hmm,” Erik murmurs, leaning in close to whisper in Charles' ear. His voice is a low, rasping growl, “Tell _biology_ I'll give him what he so desperately wants.”

“Are you always this smug when propositioning complete strangers?” Charles voice is barely above breathing.

“Only when biology's involved.” Erik's looming over him, now, his face adorned with a wide, predatory grin instead of the knowing smirk. And Charles is halfway towards a resounding agreement when a voice, familiar, this time, cuts him before he could speak.

“Charles, you're here!” Raven suddenly appears to his left, bright and blue, tackling the breath out of his lungs – non-metaphorically, this time. “I didn't expect you to come!”

“Raven,” Charles chuckles, wrapping his arms around her waist. “Of course I would. Did you think I'd miss my sister's first big performance? Even if it's in a marching band.”

“What do you mean, 'even'?” Raven says jokingly, punching his arm before snuggling up to him in the seat. Beside them, Erik is starting to look painfully awkward, jolting back and averting his eyes the moment Raven barges into the picture, and Charles nearly smirks. Not so smug now, is he.

Charles gestures at Erik, who now looks like he wishes he were anywhere else but next to them. “I assume this is your band member?” Charles says.

“Yes!” Raven grins, leaping up to her feet. She was always excitable, even more so before and during performances, nervousness giving way to jittery energy. “Erik, meet Charles. He's my brother. Charles, Erik. He's the drumline and also, the director.”

“Pleasure,” Charles gives Erik a grin, tilting an invisible top-hat in his direction.

“Same,” Erik says, automatic, still looking a little lost. Raven has that effect on people.

Raven's now hooking her arm around Erik's elbow. “Why are you here, anyway?” she says. “You should be with the band, c'mon.” She starts dragging Erik away without waiting for an answer.

 _I expect you to maintain your offer,_ Charles sends, and feels an answering surge of lust. Their eyes make contact, metres away, and Charles licks his lips in anticipation. He's hesitant, before, about the quality of the marching band – with a name like Mutant March, Charles wasn't expecting anything good – but now he has a feeling that this will be a _brilliant_ show.

 

 

It's not. It's fucking terrible. Pure noise, even by marching band standards. Charles is almost offended. His penis certainly is, flagging almost instantly at the first honk of the tubas.

 _How to tell your sister and the man you want to fuck that their band is absolute shite?_ Charles wonders, during the third torturous intermission. Luckily, he's brought earplugs – he didn't want to use them, but it never hurts to be prepared. The horror and the disappointment of the crowd are much harder to block, but then again Charles is not a stranger to either emotion.

After the riot – Charles shudders thinking of calling it a _show –_ Raven invites him to the band's after-party. At first he refuses, but her cajoling wins soon enough and thirty minutes later finds Charles guzzling scotch and beer in a bar a few miles away from the Gillette Stadium. He can never resist free drinks.

Sometime after his third – fourth – fifth? – glass, a hand wraps around Charles' shoulder. It's a nice hand, long and slender, and Charles stares for a while before he trails his gaze up the arm to the hand-owner's face.

“Erik!” Charles says, effusive with alcohol. His lips part in a wide grin as Erik moves to sit down the bar stool next to his, beckoning the bartender for a drink. He's changed out of his band outfit into a much more casual number, a slender fitting henley that reveals more of his collarbones than is strictly decent. Charles licks his lips and finds that he can't look away from that bare patch of skin.

Catching his gaze, Erik smirks. “I was hoping to make good on my promise from earlier.”

Charles giggles, and then hiccups. “How delightful,” he says, “though, my friend, I don't remember saying yes.”

“Did you not?” Erik says, undeterred. He inches closer and lays a hand on Charles' thigh, and the other hand on Charles’ cheek, thumb wiping the scotch away from his lips. His mind is a miasma of lust. And that rasping voice is just... “Here's your chance, then.”

“ _Yes,_ ” Charles whispers, tongue darting out to taste Erik's thumb. He delights in watching Erik's eyes go dark, and darker still when Charles leans forward.

In trying to claim Erik's lips like he originally intended, Charles misses by more than a hand's width, nearly tipping face-first onto the ground were it not for the way Erik's hands shoot out to steady his shoulders.

“I'm so pissed,” Charles declares, moments later.

“I can see that,” Erik says, the corner of his lips rising in amusement.

“Are you laughing at me? Don't laugh at me.” Charles frowns, going cross-eyed as he tries to glare at Erik. Why is Erik so blurry? “We gon' bang, aren't we?”

“I'm not laughing,” Erik murmurs, but the way he's grinning negates that a little bit. “And yes. But later, when you're not so -” Erik gestures vaguely up and down Charles' body. “-- drunk.”

Charles shrugs. “We-ell, fine,” he huffs, and turns back to swallow another finger of scotch.

The silence that envelops them is comfortable, like a private bubble of warmth – outside of this bubble, servers and bar patrons flit in and out of Charles' periphery, noisy but nearly unnoticed, sliding around this pocket of comfort like a river around a pebble.

It's halfway through another round of drinks that Erik – now pleasantly buzzed and indolent, movements languid and messy and unguarded – asks, “So, what do you think of the band?”

“Shucks,” Charles says, downing another gulp. He hiccups. “Was hopin' you won't ask me that.”

“You don't like it.” Erik frowns. His mind weaves itself into something like a rock, jutting out from a shaky cliff.

Charles doesn't like that feeling. “No, no,” he murmurs, waggling his glass in the air enthusiastically. “It's not that. Just... unexpected.”

There's a general gist of _emotion_ emanating from Erik, engulfing his mind like a very large cotton ball. It takes significant effort for Charles to identify the feeling when he's this sloshed, effort that he's not really keen to expend. His telepathy scatters when he's drunk – it's like casting a net with too-large holes – and he's not terribly good at picking up subtle cues to begin with.

“You're not being honest,” Erik says, thoughts like a trembling rambutan. Charles barks a laugh at the comparison, and Erik frowns. “Tell me what you really think.”

“You sure?” Charles slurs, leaning against Erik's shoulder. Even his drunk self has _some_ manners.

“Yes.” Erik swallows. Which he tries to hide, though, so Charles doesn't deliberate much on the action.

And well, he did insist. “You guys were sooo _terrible_ ,” Charles laughs, hands gesturing wildly at nothing in particular. He feels Erik tensing, mind frozen, and a small part of his brain tells himself to shut up. Unfortunately, Charles isn't very sensible in the first place. Add alcohol to the mix, and the idea of sense and sensibility starts catapulting. Brain-to-mouth filter solidly crushed, Charles barrels on. “Too loud, too blatant – tubas were awful, and why name your band Mutant March when there's no mutations involved? You know that's what people want, right? They want to see mutations. Thunderbolts and lightning! Very very frightening, whee!” Charles pops his lips in demonstration. “And they want good music, obviously, but even I've given up hope of getting that from your kind.”

Beneath his cheek, Erik has gone very, very still. “What the _fuck_?” he says, soft like the whisper of a blade. His thoughts are weirdly disjointed. Like a watermelon hit with a baseball bat. Charles likes watermelon.

He giggles, then turns to Erik in genuine concern, his own tankard sloshing as he swivels in his chair. There's two of Erik now, both frowning, and he wonders which one he should address. He scrunches up his nose, swaying in his seat from side to side. “Yessss,” he slurs, placing his fingers on his temple. He rears back and frowns at the tumult he reads. “Are you surprised? What didya expect? You guys are a marching band.”

“ _Stay out of my head,_ ” Erik growls, and Charles barely stops himself from gasping in pain when his telepathy slams against barbed steel walls. Erik's not done, though – he continues, “And what, _pray fucking tell_ , is wrong with marching bands?” He sounds enticingly dangerous.

Charles licks his lips. “Oh, where to beginn _nn_ ,” he slurs. Even his his scotch-addled state (or perhaps _because_ ), arguments are materialising in his head, pinging off and on each other and slowly building into an essay-length drunken diatribe. And it sounds unsettlingly like Sharon, though Charles knows she often does have a point. He sulks for a while. In the end, Charles says, “You guys aren't respectable musicians, are you? Good enough for a hobby, maybe, but 'snot like it's job material.”

“ _We,_ ” Erik snarls, slamming his beer on the table, “are not just a hobby.”

Charles snorts and steals a gulp from Erik's beer. “Well, keep telling yourself that and maybe it'll come true.” Then he pauses, considers, “You know, I can help - “

Erik's fist slams into his cheek. Maybe Charles should've been expecting that punch.

That night, Charles ends up with no sex, a huge bruise covering half his face, and a very angry sister. One of his better nights out, Charles thinks, full of sarcasm, as he gingerly tucks his violin under his black-blue chin the next day. He still has full brain and motor function, and isn't that something to be proud of.

 

 

It doesn't take all too much time to get Erik Lehnsherr out of his head. It’s the smart thing to do, after all, because it's not like the bridge between them hasn't been razed and pillaged to the ground. _Curse you and your smart mouth, Xavier_ , Charles finds himself thinking quite often, for some days after the event, but he can't bring himself to be too guilty. He's good at putting things in perspective. Besides, it's not like he can't find himself someone else, someone whose mind is as beautiful as Erik's was. There's really no use in ruminating over someone he's never going to meet again.

So he's very surprised when Erik Lehnsherr turns up at Symphony Hall. Charles can't see the man, but a vicious twist-tug at the back of his mind makes him startle, resulting in a puzzled frown and a glare from Ms. Frost the conductor. Luckily, it's not his solo yet, so the slight falter on the high A was easy to miss. Charles swallows and continues playing, ignoring the way his telepathy seems so keen to reach out.

There's no need to try and impress anyone, Charles knows, but he's not immune to the desire to preen. Charles is an excellent violin player; everyone but his mother says that, so it must be true, and he's used to playing for a high-pressure audience. But knowing that Erik is watching – judging, no doubt – is different. He doesn't seem like a typical orchestra enthusiast, for one, so Charles has no delusions as to why he's here.

 _Were you hoping I'd be equally terrible?_ Charles thinks as he steps up to perform his adagio solo. _Unfortunate for you._

At the end of the orchestra there's rousing applause (naturally). His telepathy registers something cold and smelling like coal, like a decision being made, but when Charles dares to finally reach out he finds that the connection at the other end is slammed shut.

 _Stay out of my head,_ Charles remembers Erik saying. Well, if that's the way he wants to play it. Fine.

 

 

But the decisiveness, more than anything, intrigues Charles enough for him to finagle Erik's address from Raven, despite her suspicious frowns and protests (“But you guys are such assholes to each other!” she said). Never let it be said that Charles can't be persuasive when he wants to. That's how he finds himself standing in front of a shoddy, run-down apartment in Quincy, a month before the New Year, with a box of pierogi and an apology on the tip of his tongue.

“The fuck are _you_ doing here?” Erik snarls the moment he opens his door.

“Happy Thanksgiving to you too,” Charles says, lips flattening. Already his proverbial hackles rise - he's never been very tolerant of rudeness. “Raven gave me your address. Can I come in?”

“No!”

“Tough,” Charles says, and pushes in anyway. Erik jolts backward as if burnt, face twisted in disbelieving fury as Charles shuts the door behind him. “Look,” Charles begins, planting his feet firmly to the carpet. “I came here to apologise. Sorry for what I said during the party, but honestly, I was really drunk.”

Erik sneers, crossing his arms. “Can't blame you for honesty.”

Charles inclines his head. “Looks like you blame me plenty,” he says. “Not that what I said wasn't true, but either way it's uncalled-for. Clearly you're very proud of the band, and it's not right for me to insult something you worked so hard for. Even if I was drunk.” There, that was sincere enough, wasn't it?

Erik scrutinises him for several moments; Charles wills himself not to fidget under his stare, feeling a little bit like a trapped insect. After a long stretch of silence, Erik says, “I know your type.”

“Pardon?”

“People like you,” Erik continues, stepping forward so that he's looming right in front of Charles' face. “You think you're better than all of us.”

“Hang on a minute,” Charles says, frowning. He tries to lean backward to regain some breathing space, but Erik follows, walking him back until Charles' spine is pressed against the door, Erik's body trapping him.

“Raven's told me a lot about you. You've always been rich. Spoiled and privileged. You have a trust fund the size of most people's lifetime earnings, and you never have to lift a finger to survive.”

“I – I don't see how this is related to the topic at hand,” Charles says, hating how uncertain his voice sounds.

“Oh,” Erik whispers, his breath warm against Charles' lips. “It's related all right. _”_

__

And then it's like a switch has been flipped.Erik's hand is suddenly on Charles' crotch – Charles' eyes widen, mouth falling open without sound. The next few seconds pass in a whirlwind, teeth scraping against the crook of his neck and nails digging into his chest. Soon Charles is gasping, lust and confusion not making room for much else.

“Wait, what,” Charles starts, but soon his protests are drowned out by a moan. The way Erik's palm is digging against his cock is tantalising.

“You're here for this, aren't you,” Erik says. Too close, too hot, too everything. “You felt it too – of course you did, telepath – and now you're here with a shitty excuse of an apology, wanting to know what you missed because you couldn't keep your own damn mouth _shut_.”

“That's not really,” Charles begins, but Erik swallows all his words.

“Lucky for you, that's _exactly_ what I want,” Erik says after the violent kiss, so close that a trail of saliva still connects their lips. His eyes are beckoning, and the hand on Charles' crotch squeezes. “Now tell me, what - is – your – answer?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Charles hisses, acceptance voiced even before he fully makes up his mind. And the flash of _victory, victory_ and something – something else ghosting the rims of Erik's eyes, delights and irritates him both.

It's not like this is unexpected, exactly – the lust is always there, buzzing in the periphery like a particularly persistent fly, every time he sees Erik (granted, just two-or-one and a half times, but). But since the party, Erik's mind has been full of anger and resentment, lust hidden so deep beneath all the overpowering negative emotion that Charles never examines it. Aside from their very first meeting, he has never considered the possibility that Erik would act upon it.

But now, Erik's fingers are clawing at his hipbone, and the aura of his mind is nothing but animal lust, made even more tempting by the aggression that accompanies every burst of arousal.

“Bastard,” Erik says as he bites Charles' collarbone hard. “You think you're better,” he repeats, half-snarling. Charles' trousers unzip by themselves – metallokinetic, Charles briefly registers – and Erik replaces his hands with a knee, pressing tight against his balls. Charles exhales sharply. “Fuck you,” Erik growls. He grabs Charles' hand and shoves it down his open trousers, past the curls of pubic hair to land on his cock – _oh God –_ his own hand clenching around Charles', pumping up and down. Charles, for his part, is rapidly hardening beneath his boxers – the pressure of Erik's hand is merciless, an exquisite torture in itself.

Then his other hand grabs Charles' hair and yanks, _hard_ , until Charles cries out in pain. Hearing that, Erik grins. It's not a nice grin.

“ _Down_ ,” Erik growls, shoving Charles to his knees. “Hands behind your back.”

Charles goes willingly, and, feeling bold, he leans forward to take Erik's cock deep into the back of his throat.

“Fuuuck,” Erik groans, tilting his head up so his neck is pleasantly bared. Charles hums around his cock – and it's a nice cock too, heady – smirking when Erik moans. His eyes burn and the building pressure on his own cock is torturous, but he ignoresthat to touch Erik instead, hands wrapping around his cock and thigh. Charles makes sure to use his nails, dragging them viciously across skin; there's no place for gentleness here, not at all, and the hiss and strangled noise Erik makes when he flicks his balls turn him on like nothing else.

Erik's hand is scrabbling the back of Charles' head; he's practically face-fucking Charles, tugging his hair and shoving his head up and down. It's so rough, so _animal –_ Charles feels deliciously like some sort of toy. Once, he gets too rough and Charles growls, sinking his teeth viciously into flesh.

And the _sound_ Erik makes – Erik's thighs are quivering, and when Charles looks up his face is twisted in pure ecstasy, eyes shut and mouth hanging open. Charles can't help but moan at the sight, saliva dribbling off his chin. Encouraged, Charles does it again, scraping his teeth across the tip of Erik's cock and then quickly replacing it with a swirl of tongue, tasting sweat and precome.

Erik's body jerks, and he gives a throaty shout when he comes. He yanks Charles' head backward and his come splatters across Charles' nose and cheeks, before his knees buckle and he crumples down to the floor.

Charles is feeling rather smug when Erik grabs him, wrestling him down until he's lying prostrate on the floor. Even though he's still clothed Charles has never felt so defenceless, so exposed, neck bared and head low, ass hanging up in the air. Erik grabs his jeans and underwear, wrenches them halfway down his thighs and then brings his hand down _hard_ on the exposed skin.

Charles screams. He's breathing hard when the third slap comes, one by one in rapid succession, body rocking with the force of it, and he's reduced to sobbing and whimpering within seconds, his mouth babbling words without conscious input – and then, suddenly, nothing.

“What –” Charles gasps. “Why'd you stop,” he slurs.

Erik bends forward so his mouth aligns with Charles ear. “Do you want to come?” Erik whispers, his voice low.

If Charles wasn't so turned on he'd be embarrassed by how desperately he begs.

Erik leans back, satisfied, and moves to stand. “Then stay on all fours like this until I come back. Touch yourself and you'll regret it.”

Charles lifts his head, opening his mouth – to protest, to complain, to beg and moan, he doesn't know, but then Erik's hand cracks across Charles' cheek – he actually slaps him in the _face_ as reprimand. Charles should probably feel humiliated, but his answering yelp isn't for shock.

“Stay. _Down_ ,”Erik growls.

“God,” Charles moans, submissively lowering his head so he's looking at the floor again. But not before seeing the satisfied gleam in Erik's eyes, which is just... Charles gulps. Seeing that sends fire up his spine, and Charles can't stop trembling.

Charles loses count of how long it takes for Erik to return. When he does, he announces himself with the sound of a condom packet ripping and several drips of lube on the crevice of Charles' ass.

“Look at you,” Erik whispers right against the curve of his ass. He drags his teeth and nails against the swell of muscle, an exquisite sear that Charles knows will leave red marks in the morning. Charles can do nothing but groan. “You're practically begging for it,” Erik continues. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Kneeling like a _whore,_ ass open, cock leaking... But you're a fucking slut, aren't you? You'll do this for anyone. You don't even know me and I've got you begging for it.”

Charles swallows, his asshole spasming in anticipation. “I know enough,” he says, voice thick and full of lust. Sweat drips down from his forehead onto the back of his hand, and he's so turned on his vision blurs.

“Guess you do,” Erik says, and shoves two lubed fingers in Charles’ ass without warning.

“Ah!” Charles cries. His spine arches and his elbows collapse, whole body jerking from the merciless burn. And then Erik _twists_ , nails scraping against Charles' insides, and it's, _fuck,_ “Watch it,” Charles hisses, but then Erik brings his other hand down Charles' ass violently, with his fingers are still inside, and the shock drives those fingers even deeper. Charles _screams._

“Shut up,” Erik says. Charles can hear the grin in his voice. “Slut.”

“You _bastard,_ ah, ah, _ah_ -” Charles moans, when Erik pushes another finger in and starts moving his hand in a furious rhythm, brushing against his prostrate each time. It's – it's _blindingly_ good, heavenly, but it's notenough. “That all you got?” Charles mumbles, heady, even as his face is being driven into the carpet.

Erik snarls, and with a particularly vicious thrust, jams his thumb into Charles' hole.

“Fuck!” Charles shouts. “Not _that_ ,” he whines, moaning his words against the floor. “C'mon, fuck me already. Your cock – ah, nngh, _fuck, Erik, c'mon --_ ”

“You want it?” Erik growls, pulling his fingers out entirely. A ragged cry tears itself from Charles' throat at the loss. “Tell me you want it.”

Charles can do nothing but whimper, now, so far beyond rational thought that the only thing he can do is whine and beg, a stream of words pouring out of his mouth. “Please, oh, I want, I want it,” he cries, “God, _please –_ “

“Then fucking _take it,”_ Erik says, and that's all the warning Charles gets before Erik slams into him in one brutal thrust.

And then Charles is screaming himself hoarse, screaming his pleasure at the top of his lungs. It doesn't take long at all; he's already so fucking close from earlier, and when he comes he actually blacks out for a second. Erik follows him down, shooting his load deep into Charles, and Charles moans when he feels the wetness of the lube dripping down his ass.

Charles is still trembling, half a minute later, when Erik slides out of him, abrupt and unceremonious, standing up and half-kicking Charles on the knees. “Now get out,” he says.

“Wha –” Charles answers, craning his neck up to look at Erik. He's buttoning his jeans, tidying up his clothes. Sweat is dripping down his brow, and he uses his sleeve to wipe it away.

“Get the fuck out,” Erik repeats, shooting Charles a threatening glare. His breathing still hasn't returned to normal, and there's a pleasant flush on his cheeks. Charles could laugh at how incongruous that is.

“You think you can throw me out, just like that?” Charles grits his teeth, anger cutting through most of the afterglow. He gets to his feet despite his wobbly knees – he has _some_ dignity to maintain here – grateful that he's at least fully clothed.With flustered, hurried movements he yanks his boxers back up and tucks his cock back in, almost grimacing at the squelchy mess in his ass.“I'm not an actual whore. You don't get to fuck me and send me away once we're done.”

“Don't pretend you don't enjoy it,” Erik says, and his expression is cold and inscrutable, the lines of his body communicating a clear dismissal.

Well. Charles tilts his head in consideration. How to handle this. “You're right,” he says after a thoughtful second.

Erik's brave, arrogant mask falters, mouth falling open just a little bit, and Charles feels his own lips curving up like a scimitar. Never let it be said that admittance is a failure. Before Erik can make a sound, Charles quickly adds, “I do. Let's do this again. You can use me however you want.” He takes a step forward, invading Erik's personal space – the man raises his arms in surprise; his hands hover just above Charles' elbow, unsure and indecisive about whether to yank him closer or away. With more arrogance than he feels, Charles whispers, making sure his breath falls right into Erik's ear. “Let's just _fuck_.”

Erik wavers, breath stuttering. Just for a second, but it's enough for Charles to see that he's really not as unaffected as he pretends to be. “Come back next week. Same time,” Erik says. He looks rather shocked by his own agreement, and Charles doesn't even bother to hide his answering smirk.

So it becomes a routine. Every Saturday, Charles drops by with a carton of take-out food, and they spend the whole day together. And on paper it sounds all sweet and adorable, except when Charles is in Erik's apartment, all he does is fuck or get fucked, brutal and vicious and _so so good,_ one full day in the entire week where he's completely out of his mind. And then before the clock strikes midnight he leaves, proper once again but with a few more bruises to spare.

Charles has never been so sexually satisfied. This... arrangement, so to speak, works for him. He doesn't know if it works for Erik but from the gleam in his eyes every time Charles appears at his door, it seems like it does.

“You _whore_ ,” Erik says, voice thick and gnarly with lust, thrusting into Charles' arse with abandon. “You _slut_. You like this, don't you? You're made for this, look at you, ah, _verdammt_ \--”

Charles likes to whimper and sob agreement into the sheets. Sometimes he wonders if he's trying to prove something.

 

 

This goes on for a while, and in all that time they never speak. Or rather, whenever Charles tries to have a conversation, he immediately get shut down, whether by a kiss or an unspeakably dirty manoeuver that often leads to him moaning and crying, grasping at sheets.

Until one Saturday, a quiet and lonely day when the temperature is ambivalent and sunshine is shy.

“You don't look so good,” Charles comments, the moment Erik lets him inside. It's true; there are deep-coloured circles underneath Erik's eyes, and his face is pale, eyes rimmed red and a furrow permanently etched into his brow. He is also consistently agitated; even though Charles takes care not to delve too deeply into his mind, since the cold brutal rejection at the infamous party, the electric frizz of tension that sharpens the entire apartment is hard to ignore.

“Why do you care?” Erik says, brusque. He runs a hand through his hair and jolts his head side-to-side, a jittery headshake. From the fridge he grabs a bottle of beer and drinks, Charles watching the movement of his throat. He sits down on the sofa, tension thrumming behind his every movement.

“When the man I've been fucking for the past month isn't feeling well, I'd rather know, thank you,” Charles offers primly, fetching himself a cup of water, following Erik to the sofa. For what, he doesn't know. It's not like he's thirsty but it seems like a prudent action, somehow.

Then a flash of hurt flits across Erik's expression, so quick that Charles doubts what he's seeing. And why should Erik be hurt in the first place, when Charles is only stating facts? It's unsettling, and more importantly, rather exasperating – though brief blips of emotion are expected from people in general, Charles has never liked causing anyone pain. But when Charles turns to him fully Erik's face is stony, all cracks sealed and revealing nothing of the mind beneath. Charles suppresses a sigh. Back to the iron statue he wishes himself to be, then.

“It's not contagious,” Erik says, but he sounds unreservedly bitter. “Nothing _you_ should worry about." 

Is that what this is all about? Charles wants to say. This man is such a child. Even with his exasperation he doesn't vocalise his original thought, clamping down on most of the frustration. Some of the annoyance does leak out, twisting his cadences when Charles says, “Not contagious – for God's sake, Erik, it's not like that's what I'm asking. I just want to know if you're alright.”

“Enough for a fuck. Get on the bed, you're wasting time.”

Charles throws his hands up in the air. “Oh my god,” he says, and this time he really _does_ sound frustrated, “No. I am not doing that!”

“What, you want me to beg?” Erik snaps. “You're already here. _Please_ get on the bed so we can fuck. Or the floor, you're not picky.”

“Must you always be so antagonistic?” Charles says, shaking his head. _To me,_ he doesn't add. Instead, he takes a deep breath to calm himself. Patience, patience. He can be a better person than this. “Look, yes, I'm here, and no, I am not having sex with you. We don't need to fuck all the time.”

And then Erik just stares. “But that's _all_ we do.”

Charles hums. “Well, we pass out after sex sometimes. But from now on we can do other things too. Like talk, maybe.” Charles scours his mind for a conversational topic, one that Erik won't find absolutely puerile. The weather's out, and so is cinema. “How's the band?” he ends up asking.

In retrospect that seems a bad idea, considering that Charles has made it clear what he really thinks of the so-called band. Erik responds accordingly, mouth clamping shut and body locking – how _dramatic,_ Charles thinks, both in awe and panicky fear. He suppresses the urge to stutter or flee. Or, alternately and possibly more damaging, roll his eyes.

“Something else then. Er, did you learn to play drums on your own?”

Erik shakes his head. “Not that either. No music talk.”

Well at least he's willing to talk. “Alright. How old were you when you discovered your mutation?”

“Really?” Erik scoffs, sending him a _look_.

Charles responds with a placating smile. “Yes, really.”

“Six.” Erik says, entirely too reluctant. It's as if the truth was dragged out of him kicking and screaming. Charles suspects that all of Erik's conversational truths behave the same way.

“And?” he prompts, when Erik doesn't seem to be intent on expounding.

“And a half. What 'and'?” Erik snaps. Sometimes it seems like all he can do is snap, growl or snarl when Charles is around.

“You know, how did it happen, what did you feel?”

“I almost dropped a spoon. I was hungry.”

Well that was concise. “Well,” Charles says, mulling on his words. “I've always had mine. But I only figured out it was a mutation when I was twelve. Before that I thought I was crazy.” Charles doesn't really know why he revealed that of himself. His childhood, summed up in three sentences, much more truth than he was prepared to deal with. It's not an easy thing, for Charles, despite the lightness of his voice. Maybe there's something in Erik that makes Charles wants to be honest – their fights certainly lend credence to that hypothesis, although most of the honesty is sex or alcohol-fueled.

Erik looks at him curiously. “I didn't ask.”

“No, but I wanted to tell.” Strangely, Charles finds that this is actually true.

Erik's lips turn down in a frown, more contemplative than disapproving, and he says nothing in reply. Silence reigns, far more awkward than any other silence Charles has ever encountered. The air enveloping them feels chock-full of traps and pitfalls, a delicate spinning top that can topple with the slightest gust of wind.

To Charles' surprise, Erik speaks first. “The Patriots won't let us play any longer if we're 'less than excellent' next show.”

It's the same kicking and screaming truth as before, but there's much more _something_ in his voice, a nameless, chaotic emotion hiding behind the turn of his vowels. Charles can only say, “Oh.”

“You going to tell us good riddance?” A snort and self-deprecating laugh.

“No, of course not.” Is that what Erik thinks of him?

And silence, again. Fraught and tense but not as prickly as before. More contemplative, like someone whispering poetry in secret. More than once Charles wishes Erik would allow him to use his telepathy, but he's learnt not to ask that from people even before he could talk.

So Charles clears every sentimental thought he might have. The facts are these: Erik's band is failing, and Erik has just told him this. What does he want Charles to do? Charles can think of several possibilities, not in the least providing options and solutions.

After a moment, Charles says, “When's the next show?”

“February.”

“Then you have a month, give or take. Enough time to start looking for something else.” In Erik's position, Charles would certainly do so. A month might seem long, but for a full show it's cutting it close.

Erik sends him a look. “I don't want to look for something else.”

“It's the only sensible thing to do,” Charles shrugs. “Not like your band's going to last forever.”

All he gets in warning is a mental flare of rage, before he gets the wind knocked out of him. Erik is on him in less than a second. “ _Say that again_ ,” Erik growls, “ _and I'll fuck you up_.”

Seriously? “Seriously,” Charles mutters. A certain tightness in his chest – more and more familiar these days, since he met Erik – makes its presence known. I'm angry, Charles realises. You know what, I'm fucking angry. “Why are you always so – can't you see I'm trying to help you, here?!”

“I don't want your fucking help!”

“Oh, _please_ ,” Charles hisses, rolling his eyes. He always gets more sarcastic when he's angry, sharp and precise like a well-honed blade, slicing where it hurts. And Erik has a lot of weak spots. “Yes,” Charles says, low and mocking, “Tell me again how you – your _stupid_ band, whatever – don't need help. How long does it take you to realise how fucking bad you sound? I'm surprised you managed to get a gig at all.”

Obviously it's the wrong thing to say – what happens next is disastrous. Erik grabs him and nearly flings him out of the sofa, shouting curses and furious epithets in German. Charles, already bristling with anger, meets his fire with his own brand of icy flames.

Minutes – perhaps hours – of shouting (Erik) and harsh, slicing words (Charles), both of them are breathing hard. Charles is standing, body angled towards Erik like a knife, so on-edge that he nearly misses that Erik's eyes are glistening. His anger immediately curbs itself.

“Erik, I'm –” he begins.

“This was – is – a mistake,” Erik growls, pressing a hand across his eyelids. “You're a fucking mistake. Whenever I think we can –” his words stutter to a halt, a sharp intake of breath, and for a moment Erik's expression looks so _open._

“What?” Charles prompts, with a gentleness that surprises even himself. “What can we do?”

“Nothing,” Erik says. In a surreal moment of discrepancy, Erik chuckles. It sounds unbearably bitter. Mocking. Almost sad, Charles thinks, and he doesn't know why that should bother him so much. Moments later, Erik shakes his head, turning away so that his back is to Charles. “You better go.”

Charles, having nothing to say, does.

Once he's out of Erik's apartment, Charles takes a deep breath, running both palms down his face. There's a headache coming on, his telepathy twisting and curling upon itself like thorny vines.

More often than not the aftermath of rage leaves him guilty and cold. Sometimes he envies Erik's brand of sustained anger, his ability to yell and direct his flames outwards. It strikes of irresponsibility, perhaps, scattering blame like grenades without regard for casualties. At the same time it must be freeing, to be so certain of what you're supposed to get from this world without once thinking about what you deserve. It reeks of pride and denial, a certain solipsism that's foolish and admirable at once. If only I can do the same, Charles muses, trying to set his own anger ablaze. But then he shakes his head with a rueful smile. No, that way madness lies.

 

 

Come next Saturday, Charles finds himself in a dilemma. To see Erik or to not see Erik, he ponders. To sex or not to sex, maybe – that seems more appropriate to their situation, but last week changes everything. Well, perhaps not so dramatic as that, but Charles can't deny that something's happened. The problem is, he can't predict Erik's reaction to events – will he be the same as always, today, or will he be different? Should Charles apologise, or should he pretend that nothing's happened and just get on the floor as always?

Charles paces down the corridor outside Erik's apartment for several minutes, back and forth and back and forth, earning himself some curious and suspicious glances from the building's inhabitants. All right, Charles resolves in the end. I'll apologise. I will apologise, but I won't like it.

When he knocks on the door, Erik answers, looking miserable and balefully unkempt.

“What have you done to yourself?” Charles gapes. He shoulders in, and then sniffs the air a couple of times. “Are you drunk? On Saturday morning, really?” But he really doesn't need to ask. Erik's studio apartment is littered with beer cans and empty vodka bottles. It's amazing he hasn't died of alcohol poisoning.

Erik glares but he shuts the door with Charles still in it. Progress. “Why do you even care? You hate me.” His voice trembles when he says that. Makes him sound hurt. Weird, but Charles reckons it could be just the alcohol.

“I don't hate you,” Charles says. But Erik doesn't seem like he's listening, striding instead to his ratty grey couch and dropping himself on it. Practically slamming his ass on the upholstery, so violent his motions are. Just to make sure Erik heard, Charles repeats, “No, I don't hate you.”

“Well I hate you,” Erik remarks. He doesn't say it to wound – it's more emotionless, a statement of a fact. Charles finds that it stings, unexpectedly, a painful prick in his chest, but it's not like he doesn't know that in the first place.

“I know,” Charles replies, soft. He joins Erik on the sofa; Erik flinches and moves the tiniest bit away.

“Fuck you,” Erik says. Charles shrugs tiredly in response.

In the following silence, Charles wonders if he should just leave Erik to whatever he's wallowing in. Erik's clearly fidgeting, eager to leap out of the couch but making a point not to stand before Charles does. He throws glances at the fridge from time to time – looking for more alcohol, perhaps, and Charles is left feeling actually somewhat concerned.

He sighs. “Why did we even start having sex in the first place if you hate me so much?”

“You know when you see someone so stuck-up,” Erik mutters, palm flat against his eyelids. “You just want to take him down a notch.”

Spare his feelings, why don't you. “Oh,” Charles mutters dryly, using deadpan to cover up the hurt. “I see.”

Erik chuckles and rubs his red-rimmed eyes. He looks like something has just died, more morose than anything. Surprisingly, he says, “No, that's not all true.” Charles prepares to shield his feelings from the worst when Erik actually turns to face Charles, voice growing serious, at odds with his words. “You believe in love at first sight?”

Charles doesn't know if he'll like where this is going. “Uh, not really,” he says, aiming for a casual shrug.

“Me neither. But then you see this man in a ridiculous scarf sitting in a first-row seat, looking around – _for what,_ you think, for you, you hope – and you, you _hate_ yourself – because you're just bravado and fucking _biology_ -”

Wait a minute. “Hang on, what -”

“Let me finish,” Erik snarls, and Charles' mouth clicks shut. “You see him – no, you feel him in your head, and it's like a language you share, right, and then you think you can prove something to him and to yourself, and you fucking do your best, of course, you do your best and he laughs and calls you _terrible, what did you expect,_ and just, fuck it, fine, maybe then _biology_ can do its fucking job --”

“Erik Lehnsherr,” Charles interrupts, eyes wide as a tambourine. His mind is absolutely _whirling_. “Did I break your heart at the party?”

Erik clamps his mouth shut and looks away. And that's... that's _entirely_ too much for Charles to deal with without his telepathy.

“Is that why we fucked, the first time?” he says, voice escalating in his dismay, more than three-quarters of the way to freaking out. “Did you, did I, what in the name of hell were you thinking?!” he screeches. “What makes you think that was a good idea?”

Erik doesn't answer.

“You could have said something!” Charles continues, his voice near-squeaky in distress. “You could have, you could have not fucked me, maybe, you know, _talk,_ like proper adults –”

“As if you'd look at me twice,” Erik hiccups. “I'm terrible, you said.”

“Holy shit,” Charles says. Holy shit, he thinks, feeling rather faint.

“Fuck you,” Erik says, mouth clenched unhappily, fists rubbing at his eyes.

“My god. This is so fucked up. You are such a...” Charles murmurs, almost wonderingly, gesturing rapidly when he can't locate the vocabulary. He receives a baleful look from Erik, and makes himself continue. “Okay, okay, look. Your music _is_ terrible. Your band is an insult to marching bands. And I hate marching bands, so that must mean a lot.”

Erik glares and moves to stand up – already anticipating this, Charles wraps his hands around Erik's shoulders, pushing him down and back into the seat. Erik wriggles his shoulders a bit in protest, but soon surrenders and slumps back.

“It's the truth,” Charles says. “It doesn't mean that you are. You are so much more than that. You hear me, Erik?” _I certainly don't fuck people based on their musical tastes_ , Charles wants to add. There was Tony in freshman year and he sounds like a dying horse. And he almost laughs at the thought, which, actually, is so out of place – oh god, Charles thinks, oh god oh god, this is what panic must feel like.

“You don't understand,” Erik says, syllables slurred and stretched. He sounds very petulant, whiny, sad – Charles can't do _sad,_ can never do sad, especially when he's barred from using his telepathy, so he quietly freaks out as Erik continues, in that same tone, “My band is what I _am._ I created it, shaped it.Before that I didn't have a thing. But you... I saw you, you know. At that concert. You play music like you're checking out groceries. Technical. Dry. _Cold._ Fuck, you nap with more emotion. How is that even possible?”

Charles huffs, feeling the panic abate slightly - he deals a lot better with insults. “Now, now,” he says. “Insults are hardly necessary.”

“Well, I guess it's good,” Erik admits like it's being torn out of him. “It's clean and precise, _exact,_ it'll get you awards for sure _–_ but you won't understand what it feels for us. You... you don't _play_ , you perform. Everything you do, you do for show. When was the last time you did anything just for the sake of it?”

“I–“ Charles begins, half a shout, but then he catches himself and swallows the burning, indignant protest. No use shouting at a drunk, wounded man. He takes a deep breath. “I... perform,” Charles echoes, and the word tastes like ash in his mouth.

“You look like you hate your violin,” Erik concludes, head shaking. There's really no reason for him to sound so sad about it.

“Do I?”

“You know you do,” Erik answers, and then he turns to face Charles fully. Despite the sloppy drunkenness of his motions, his eyes are clear, unsettling in the way they seem to turn Charles inside out. “That fucking annoys me so much,” Erik says, but the soft whisper of his voice betrays his harsh words. “You annoy me so _fucking_ much, and yet...” he trails off.

“You're drunk,” Charles says, after many seconds of silence, and Erik snorts and nods. Then he bends forward, lowering his head until his forehead rests against Charles' breastbone. Feeling rather awkward, Charles decides to run his palm soothingly up and down Erik's spine.

They spend a long time just breathing, in this not-quite-embrace. Charles inhales and exhales deep, slow breaths, Erik's warmth and scent filling up his lungs, washing away whatever awkwardness remains. It's almost overwhelming.

It's been a long conversation. He's sure Erik will be mortified come Sunday. There's this niggling feeling in his chest, a knot that's always present when Erik's around, like a tangled clump of embarrassment and a self-righteous defensiveness he can't fully erase, but even though Erik's words bother him he can't help but smile.

“I think we both need to do some thinking,” Charles says in the end, pushing Erik backwards almost reluctantly. “How about you sleep on it?” He slots himself underneath Erik's shoulder to nudge the man into his bedroom. Erik is endearingly soft and pliant when he's drunk.

Once Erik's fully tucked in his bed, Charles has a curious urge to kiss his forehead. Isn't that what people do in situations like this, he wonders, but he really has no frame of reference. This morning has been surreal. In the end, he doesn't kiss Erik, but he does whisper, “Good night,” in an embarrassingly fond way. And even he can't stifle the tenderness that must be apparent all over his face.

Back home, Charles picks up his violin and practices. It's not quite right, but then again it he's starting to accept that it never will be.

 

 

He phones Raven the very next day.

“Raven, am I a good violinist?” Charles asks, the moment the line connects, and hopes that he doesn't sound _too_ desperate. But it's fine if Raven sees him desperate, he thinks. Maybe. But he'd rather not.

Raven makes a short inquiring sound at the abrupt question. “Why are you asking?” she says. “Is it Sharon, did she say something? You know not to listen to her, Charles. She'll always find something to complain about.”

The way she immediately latches on to Sharon probably says something. Charles brushes off her concerns, although there's a voice at the back of his mind that pipes, _isn't it always._ He quashes it down. “It's not Sharon. Just me. I just want to know.”

Raven takes a while to answer. Charles can imagine her tilting her head, the way she always does when she's thinking. “You're the most technically brilliant violinist I know.”

Charles squeezes his eyes shut. “But not a good one,” he concludes.

“No, I mean... ”

“Erik tells me I look like I hate my violin.” Now. Charles really didn't mean to say that. Erik has this way of sneaking into his actions at really inconvenient times.

“Hate is a strong word,” Raven says. Charles hates how she sounds so very careful. _I'm not that fragile_ , Charles wants to say. _I won't break_. But the more he thinks about it, the more questionable that statement becomes. Raven's still speaking, though, so Charles makes himself listen attentively. “I don't think you hate your violin. It's just that, you don't seem like yourself when you're playing, Charles. Sharon and the audience you play to can't see that, because they don't know you. They've never really seen you, have they? But I – and I'm assuming, Erik – can.”

The thought of Erik understanding him in any way sits strangely in his stomach. Like something that fits, but not quite right, a new shoe to break into. “Why are you in the Mutant March, Raven?”

“Mm. Many reasons, really. If I'm being honest, it's really not for the music. You know I've never been into the whole band schtick to begin with. But... it's a community, I guess. Like I'm somewhere I belong, somewhere I don't have to hide. Mutant and marching band and proud.” _And you couldn't give me that,_ Charles hears. It's a remnant of a long and painful fight, many years ago, but Charles' failure still leave scars.

“I see,” Charles can only say. Though he doesn't, not really.

Raven laughs. “I can tell what you wanna say. Look, I know we sound horrible,” she says, sheepish. There's probably a self-deprecating smile on her face right now. “It's not like I'm deaf. But the good part is still being proud of ourselves for doing our best anyway.”

“What if your best isn't good enough?” It's what Sharon says to him verbatim. _You are not good enough._

“There's no what if about it,” Raven says, huffing. “It _is_ good enough. Tell you what,” she brightens. “Come to our practice and you'll see what I mean.”

 

 

“Uh,” Erik says when he opens to door to room E4. It's half an hour before the scheduled Wednesday practice, the time that's Raven given him, so Charles reckons Erik wasn't expecting anyone, much less Charles. 

“May I come in?” he says with a friendly smile.

“Sure,” Erik fumbles, “Sure, uh. Yeah.” He's looking everywhere but Charles, colour slowly blossoming into his cheeks.

Charles lays a hand on Erik's elbow and Erik almost jumps out of his skin. “You don't have to feel awkward. I don't judge. Well, I did, a little, but not now. Nothing has to change between us if you don't want it to, promise.”

“I'm not awkward,” Erik grouses, but Charles quirks an eyebrow – a bit cockily, if he were being honest. Erik snorts when he sees that but the tension in his shoulders dissipates. “Fine,” he says. “Practice isn't for another half-hour. Go ahead and sit in the corner until then.”

“Half an hour of punishment?” Charles says, quite innocently at first, until he sees Erik's flush deepen. “I mean,” Charles stutters. “Yes, thank you. I will.”

Erik's eyes soften.

Charles hums, seizing his chance. His hands keep twisting the straps of his bag. “So, anyway, I came because I was thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“I figured it out,” Charles says. “How to fix your band.”

“We don't need fixing –“ Erik begins, but Charles shushes him.

“Before you get angry,” Charles says. “Hear me out. You need to perform exceptionally well next show or you'll be booted out, right? Performing exceptionally well is what I do.” It's true, but it sounds so bloody arrogant. But Erik looks as if he's listening, for once, so Charles takes that as a cue to continue. “We have one month. During this time, I'll help you train your band. Like it or not, Erik, you could use some help.”

“What makes you think we can learn anything from you?”

Charles shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not. But it can't hurt. Believe me, I don't want you to fail.”

Erik's jaw is clenched, was clenched the whole time Charles is speaking. But wonder of wonders, he manages to loosen up. He starts to nod, even.

“Good,” Charles says with a decisive nod. “Okay, so. You need something special. Something that can differentiate you from the other bands out there. You're the Mutant March, the only mutant-only band in this part of America. Why aren't you utilising your powers to your full potential?”

Erik looks affronted. “We're not a _circus_.”

“Are you not?” When Erik opens his mouth – to rage, obviously – Charles tilts his head. “No, seriously. Are you not? You're performing in front of an audience – 'humans', in your vocabulary – and you brand yourself as different from them. Of course they expect to see something different. New, exotic, unexpected, what have you. And you have to meet those expectations. Or exceed them, but on their terms. Otherwise they won't like you.”

“That why you're such a prick?” Erik snaps.

“None of your business,” Charles mutters with a grimace. “Here's the thing. You _need_ them to like you. There's no question. You can talk about pride or the sanctity of music all you want, but the bottom line is that if the audience doesn't like you, you're gone.”

“ _Pride_ –“

“Is all you have,” Charles cuts, and that stops Erik still. “I understand that. Very well, in fact. We're all musicians here, aren't we? And mutants too, so don't ever doubt that I understand what it means to hold onto pride. Sometimes it's the only thing that we have.” He pauses. “I don't mean that you have to choose one or the other. You don't have to see pride as equivalent to utterly rejecting conformity. It's not an us versus them situation.”

“How do you mean?”

Here Charles falters. He's really just winging this. Honestly, does he have to do everything. “You can take pride in being liked, for example –“

“I'm not going kowtow to their wishes just like that!”

Charles wishes it was more socially acceptable to scream. “See, that's the problem with your thinking – we're going round in circles here, are you even listening?” He sucks in a breath through his teeth. Now, how to get through that abominably thick skull... “Okay. Let's just talk the short term. For the next show, one show only, you sucker up your pride and _perform_ , alright? You give them what they want just _once_ and then we'll see how it goes.”

“That's being hypocritical,” Erik mutters, but it's less of a protest than a commentary.

“Yes. And that's adapting to survive.”

This is when Erik turns to stare at him – in amazement, disbelief, disgust, Charles doesn't know. Doesn't really want to know. “Charles Xavier,” Erik says. “You are _so_ fucked up.”

Maybe it's wrong to be proud of that fact, Charles thinks. “Takes one to know one,” he quips.

 

 

Band practice goes well. Very well. All the band members are receptive to Charles' suggestions, even offering up suggestions of their own. Charles feels in his element, which altogether is a very rare thing.

“Again,” Charles says to the second trombone player. “Alex, was it? Try to hit that high E really loud. _Fortissimo._ You need to come in with a bang.” Alex nods, brows scrunching in focus. “Let's take it from the start.”

The trumpets begin – good, loud, good, and then the idiophones, and then the flutes seguing from the second measure --

“No, stop, stop,” Charles says, his foot tapping against the floor in rhythm. “Restart from bar eleven. Woodwind, pay attention to the tie – alright, pyrokinetics, enter right. Raven, try returning to movement C. Everybody follow the metronome.”

The students nod. Charles smiles approvingly when John wreathes himself in a ring of flames, and Raven leaps forward, skin flickering while she twists and turns with her ribboned baton. Everything is coming along perfectly.

All the time, Erik is staring at him, his face impassive and lips flat. He looks unhappy, though Charles can't think of a reason why he should be. 

“Maybe we could add violins during the third movement,” Charles suggests, scratching the tip of his pen against his chin. It's later in the evening, and all the rest of the band has left for home. He and Erik are alone. “It's unusual and innovative. The audience would like that.”

“Of course they would,” Erik hisses.

Charles startles out of his reverie. “What's wrong, Erik?”

“Enough changes,” Erik says, motioning sharply. “It's too showy. There's no integrity to this thing.”

“Well, Erik, maybe integrity isn't actually what the audience wants,” Charles points out, keeping his tone bland and cool. This again, he thinks.

“There's a limit to how much we should pander to the audience,” Erik snaps.

“No such thing,” Charles waves a hand in dismissal. “Audiences are hungry and their expectations boundless.” He turns back to his tablature. “That's what my experience in the orchestra is like. Just take the help you were given, would you?”

“I never said we needed your help!”

Charles raises a brow. “Don't be foolish. You needed my help before. Deny it all you like, but you _were_ struggling.”

Erik stares at him furiously, and then he steps up right into Charles' space, bending at the waist to jab a finger at his chest. “Just because you're a – fucking prodigy, or something – we're not some instruments to toggle to your satisfaction, _mister-fucking-orchestra_ , so, _sorry_ that we have our own standards. Remember that we're not below you in any way.”

“Is that what this is about?” Charles asks, jolting up from the floor where he was sitting. “Because I'm a talented performer – I'm – I look down on you? I think I'm perfect, is that it? All the masses should bow down to my _fucking_ perfection! Is that what you think I want?!” He's breathing hard, he realises. His hands are trembling. Haltingly furious, he swivels and strides to his knapsack and retrieves several pages of his violin sheet music. Then he returns to Erik, and flings the stack of papers at his face.

“You–” Erik begins, surging in rage, but Charles doesn't let him.

“How long do you think it takes me to get it right?” he demands, grabbing and shaking Erik by the collar.

Erik backs away and hesitates, eyes wide and darting across the pages scattered around them. _Good,_ Charles thinks, not a small amount of satisfaction.

“Tell me. I'm curious. How long do you think?” Charles' eyes are burning. He's blinking hard – he thinks he might be crying, but no, not yet. Not now with Erik here.

Erik looks startled, clenching and unclenching his fists on either side of his thighs. Finally, after a long moment, he speaks. “Not long enough,” Erik breathes, almost reluctant. Charles feels cold all over.

“ _Wrong,_ ” he snarls, and turns, stomping away. Let Erik make of that what he will.

Because really. Really, what's the fucking point? It's just envy, isn't it, and Charles should be used to this, since it ruins everything he's ever had – Raven, back then, and now this too. Spoiled, privileged, rich – that's what Erik said, a few months ago, like those traits are the only words that define him. Like he doesn't have the right to be sad or to complain – and fine, fine, maybe he doesn't. He has a better life than most, even Raven, even after he adopted her. But it's like everything he is keeps him apart – telepathy, violin, the bloody fucking orchestra. Not mutant enough, not human enough, not poor enough, and now not even _shitty_ enough.

 _Why do I even bother?_ Charles thinks, slumping down in his corner where his bag lies. Sometimes he wants someone to listen. Sometimes he just wants his sacrifices acknowledged.

Erik is standing in the middle of the room looking at the wall. It's quiet except for Charles' harsh breathing, which, thankfully, is slowly settling back to normal. Charles refuses to look at Erik when he finally moves, but in his peripheral vision he can see Erik picking up all the fallen papers, gathering them into a pile and putting them in order.

Minutes later Erik dares to approach him, offering up the neat and sorted stack of papers like an armistice. Charles isn't so receptive. “Thank you,” Charles says curtly, yanking the pages from Erik's hand. He clips and stows the notes back in his bag with fast, jerky motions.

Erik merely looks at him, and doesn't say anything. He lowers himself to the floor so he's next Charles, and then he just... sits there for a while. Sharing quiet. And then, after some time, he taps Charles' shoulder with his forehead – like a small, guilty puppy, Charles thinks – and nudges Charles' chin up with the top of his head and begins kissing down the column of his neck.

Charles sighs, all the fight draining out of him. “I'm not having sex with you in the studio,” he protests, wanting to be left alone in sulky silence, but his hand has already moved to stroke the back of Erik's neck. It's quite confusing, these conflicting impulses.

“Alright,” Erik says, but he doesn't stop kissing Charles. When Erik guides him down, Charles goes.

Maybe if I just get the sex over with, Charles thinks when it's clear Erik's not going to stop. Charles groans, and then – in the interest of coming as soon as possible – wrenches them apart to tug furiously at Erik's clothes.

“Slow down,” Erik whispers, catching his wrists with one hand. “The door's locked.”

That's not really why, Charles opens his mouth to say, but the thorough, exploratory kiss Erik pulls him into shatters all of his words. He couldn't really be bothered to say anything after that, and this, just letting Erik do whatever he wants with Charles, letting himself be soft and pliant and languid, is actually quite enjoyable. Fine, he thinks, when Erik's lips close around a nipple. Fine then, he breathes, and drowns himself in Erik's capable hands. They've never had this kind of sex before, and it's – nice, more than nice, even, sex like this, face-to-face and moving in concert. The noises they make echo against the walls of the studio. Erik is free and generous with his words, moaning into Charles' mouth like a gift, and Charles feels helpless for anything but to give back. When they come, it's with each other's name on their lips.

Later, they lie together, Erik's chest plastered against Charles' back. It should be uncomfortable, with the heat and sweat evaporating from skin, but it's not. It's really not.

“When did you start learning to play?” Erik asks, soft and private, words shared just between the two of them.

Charles wonders what Erik stands to gain by asking him this. “Three. I started with piano, but I wasn't improving quickly enough so we switched to violin.”

“Really. When was that?” Erik's broad hands start absently moving across Charles' chest, fingers tapping on patches of skin – both a tease and a soothing caress, curious and exploring.

“Some time around six, I believe. We had the new instructor come to our house every morning. My mother would supervise.”

“She would?” Erik murmurs.

“Yes. But not since I left home.” Charles squirms as Erik's hands brush against a ticklish spot on his belly, not quite able to stifle a short snort of laughter.

“Mm. How long do you practice each day?”

“What is this, twenty questions?” Charles says. But, soft – he has neither the will nor strength to muster up the appropriate amount of sarcasm.

“Just answer,” Erik says. Like Charles, there's absolutely no heat in his voice. In fact, it sounds rather – adoring. Charles thinks he hears a smile in his voice.

Charles shrugs. “I don't know. All the time I have, I guess.”

Erik doesn't reply. Instead, he drops a kiss on Charles' nape. It feels like some sort of apology.

“One last question,” Erik whispers against his back, the warmth of his lips imprinting upon Charles' skin. He speaks so softly Charles has to strain his ears to listen. “What is it you're aiming for, Charles?”

Good question. “I'm supposed to be someone I'm not,” Charles says, after a while. Like _that_ answers anything. But maybe it does. Everything about him is really that simple.

 

 

They decide against the violins after all, though not for the fight. It's after an unspeakable incident with Ororo and Sean, something with steel-wound strings and resonance frequencies. Charles doesn't mind at all, not when practice is going so well. The month flies by, January giving way to February, and suddenly, it's the day before the big performance 

Charles is used to time zipping by before a big performance. Erik... probably not so much.

During the final dress rehearsal Erik's awfully jittery, flexing his fingers every two minutes, shooting occasional glances Charles' way like he's trying to say something. Then, during break, he actually grabs Charles' elbow and drags him to a different room – some sort of broom closet, judging by the cramped space and all the dust.

“What's going on?” Charles asks, with some trepidation. He's not looking for a fight, and Erik appears so tense the smallest thing can set him off.

“Nothing,” Erik says. But his hands are trembling, and he looks _this_ close to fleeing and driving his car off the nearest embankment. Charles imagines all sorts of scenarios, each one more undesirable than the last.

“Come on, you know I know you better than that,” he says.

Erik gazes at him for a few seconds. “What if we fail?” he concedes, voice leaving him in a hush, like he's afraid he could jinx himself. “What if it still, what if we...” he wrings his hands, rather helplessly. “I don't know what to do if we fail.”

Charles takes a step closer to Erik – rather a miracle that he's able, in this cramped space – and Erik stiffens, though he relaxes again almost immediately. When he doesn't move away Charles leans in until his temple settles against Erik's shoulder. “You won't fail. I have complete faith in you.”

Erik just shrugs. His arms find their way around Charles' waist, pulling him tight against Erik's chest. It's as if he wants to burrow into Charles – so easy and comforting, that motion, soft and subconscious and every bit as right as it should be.

“I've never seen you so nervous,” Charles muses, rubbing soothing circles on Erik's back. “You really love the band, don't you?”

Erik snorts. “If that wasn't obvious from the start, I don't even know what to tell you.”

“Hm,” Charles murmurs, ears pressed to Erik's chest, listening to his rapid heartbeat. “Well, even if you screw up, no matter how badly – I'll still be here.”

“You?” Erik says, lips quirking. Any other time, it would sound incredulous. Maybe it's incredulous even now, but it doesn't feel that way. And maybe it should be insulting, but then Erik's dropping light kisses all over his neck and face and shoulders, and that makes it hard to feel anything but soft. Soft and fond and terrified.

Charles nods. “Me.” Saying that wasn't as scary as he expected, so he continues. “I'll be right by your side. Whatever happens, we'll go through it together.”

Erik inhales a shaky breath. “How do you even exist?” he sighs. His eyes and his voice overflow with warmth.

A bit much for Charles, to be honest. “Well, Erik, when an egg fuses with a sperm–”

“Stop talking,” Erik says, and tightens his hold.

“Okay,” Charles sighs.

 

 

And then it's H-day. “Look at you,” Charles coos, whistling and surveying – well, ogling – Erik up and down. “All dressed up and ready to show.” He doesn't bother to hide the lechery in his gaze, because Erik looks absolutely _delicious,_ and it's not like Erik would notice, with how tense his being.

True to form, Erik presses his lips together, adjusting his collar for the nth time, revealing a patch of reddish-blue skin. Charles stares at the hickey, his mind lamely declaring _I did that,_ before he clears his throat to actually listen to what Erik's saying. “I don't feel ready,” Erik mutters.

“Nonsense,” Charles says, waving an arm. “You're as ready as you'll ever be. Besides, there's not much room to be any worse than you were. Bloody philistines, all of you.”

“Fuck you,” Erik says, kissing Charles' forehead, disconcertingly fond. Charles feels a little bit off-balance, and he attributes that to his buzzing nerves.

He sits in the front row, as before, but this time he's more attuned. When the band comes on he sits straighter, leaning forward like a knife – or a proud parent, maybe that's more appropriate – and watches the show with full intent.

Charles winces when the tubas come in, a fleeting thought at the back of his mind going _shit, minor seventh,_ but looking at the joy and pride in the students' faces makes Charles equally, if not more, proud. Then there's the part where the drumline begins, and a surge of excitement waves through the crowd as the drums begin to rise, rumbling by a force unseen. _Erik,_ Charles thinks, very and incomprehensibly fond.

By the time the pyrokinetics and photokinetics begin to dance, the crowd is cheering, going absolutely wild, and Charles is grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.

 _Fucking success_ , he thinks. He imagines Erik's thinking the same.

Immediately after the show, Charles pushes his way across the crowd to where the band is sitting. “You were bloody terrific!” he exclaims, and then he spends some fifteen minutes shaking hands and bumping shoulders with all the members of the band. The same grin from before is on his face – he hasn't stopped smiling since the intermission, to be honest, and he thinks he'll need to make it up to his zygomatic muscles with a massage.

They're not who he really wants to see, though. _Where's Erik?_ Charles thinks, looking around and feeling a bit lost – Raven nudges him knowingly, pointing him to the quieter waiting area. When he enters the room, Erik is there, staring at the wall. Charles beams. “Congratulations,” he begins, wanting to give Erik a thorough, well-deserved hug, when he sees pinpricks of moisture at the corners of Erik's eyes. “Are you, are you crying?” Charles says, eyes wide, torn between adulation and horror.

“Shut up,” Erik sniffles, and then he gives a wet grin and pulls Charles in for that hug. And, as a bonus, a deep, searing kiss.

When they have sex that night it's – different. Erik laughs all the time, pure and joyful laughter buoyed by their recent victory. He's teasing, charming and fully affectionate, bestowing playful kisses on Charles cheeks, hair, thighs, even once blowing a raspberry on his stomach, ducking with a grin when Charles lurches to swat at his head. It's really hard to resist him like this, harder still to restrain his telepathy, but Charles hasn't forgotten what Erik said he wanted, before – for Charles to stay out of his head – so Charles clamps down tightly on the proverbial lid, trying not to leak his apprehension.

“What's wrong, Charles?” Erik whispers against his chin.

“Nothing,” Charles says. He manages a real smile, breath hitching when Erik's tongue caresses a sensitive spot behind his ear. “I'm so proud of you.”

Erik lifts himself up, hovering right above Charles, looking down at his face. He grins broadly for one, two seconds, planting a kiss before he dives in again to explore Charles' body. Charles, for his part, feels rather – shaken, taken apart to his very core. In Erik's every movement he hears the gratitude Erik doesn't need to voice, and there's something very strange and ardent tugging at Charles' heart.

“So,” Erik says, after they're both well and thoroughly sated. His voice is entirely too casual. “You've heard our performance. Let me hear yours.”

He couldn't say he was expecting this, but it's not a bad thing. “Concert, eight o'clock Wednesday.”

“No,” Erik says. “Not what I meant.” He looks frustrated, like whatever that comes out of his mouth is wrong. Welcome to my life, Charles thinks, dry. It'd be easier if Charles could read his mind, Charles wants to say, wants to ask for permission. But then Erik adds, “I want _you_ to play.”

“Like I said,” Charles says airily, despite his accelerating heart. “Eight o'clock Wednesday.”

Erik says nothing, but understanding crosses his expression and he gives a small nod. He reaches for Charles' hand, squeezing it and bringing it to his lips for a kiss, and Charles feels his treacherous heart miss a beat. They sleep together, face-to-face just like that, legs and fingers intertwined.

 

 

Charles doesn't see Erik before the concert. It's not that he doesn't want to – it's just that he feels like this is something he should do for himself, and when he tells Erik this the night before, Erik kisses his ear and whispers _good luck._ His voice is so sincere it might as well be holy.

And so Charles plays – and it's not different, not exactly, his notes ringing out as before. But he's more... centred, somehow; his mind doesn't linger on mistakes, and he feels both completely alert and lost in the tune of the piece. It feels like the audience doesn't exist, here, like there's just him and the song – and Erik, of course, always Erik – and even when his finger lands a bit too high on the fingerboard or when his bow falls at a slightly thin angle he enjoys them. The conductor – Ms. Frost – looks at him strangely, but it's not bad – approving, almost, like she found something she was looking for.

Same, Charles thinks, and it feels like she heard.

He wonders where Erik is, whether that indulgent pain and rawness and utter calm he feels in his head is him or Erik – it's probably himself, Charles reckons, because he did promise to stay out of Erik's head, but he imagines Erik's there.

When he's done, when he lifts his bow for the final time that night, there are tears in his eyes.

The orchestra shakes hands, exchanging genuine, if formal, congratulations once they're backstage. Erik's waiting for him near the exit – he's wearing a beautifully-fitted suit, hair slicked back and shoes shined. Charles feels a sudden surge of affection for this man, who looks at him when he approaches and doesn't look away.

“Well,” Erik says, fingers twirling in a fallen lock of Charles' hair. He's almost smiling. “That was certainly different. _”_

Was it? “ _Good_ different?” Charles asks, trying not to sound too hopeful.

Erik breaks into a full smile, now, and nods, not with a small amount of pride. Charles feels his knees shake in relief. Relief and joy and gladness. Really unfamiliar feelings to be had after an orchestra.

Then somewhere to his left a familiar voice makes its presence known. “Charles,” Sharon says, in that chilly tone of hers.

Charles' stomach lurches. He wasn't expecting Sharon to be here – it's been a while since she deigned to watch Charles' performances, and his blood freezes in his veins, spine going rigid and palms sweaty – Erik stares at him in concern and surprise, eyes wide as he looks to Sharon and back. “Charles?” he whispers, soft and careful, reaching for Charles' limp wrists.

“I see you brought a _friend_ ,” Sharon says, and the way she says 'friend' is as if she's spitting garbage.

“Mother,” Charles says, hating how flat and quiet his voice becomes. He gestures woodenly to Erik. “This is Erik. Erik, meet mother.”

“Well,” Sharon says, upturning her nose when Erik extends his hand. Then she catches Charles' eyes, her gaze piercing and full of disapproval. “You were _abysmal_ ,” she says, and beside him he hears Erik draw an aborted gasp. Sharon ignores his reaction and continues, “Truly shameful. No better than a street peddler – what have you been wasting your time on, all of these weeks?” She clicks her tongue, shaking her head. Then she proceeds to list every note where he went wrong – the A-sharp too flat, pizzicato too thin – and Charles has to refrain from saying _I know_ and apologising over and over. _Focus on what you felt when you were playing_ , Charles tries to think, but Sharon's voice is much too piercing.

Erik. Erik's here. He has to – he lifts his eyes and turns to Erik. To his amazement, Erik is glaring poisonously at Sharon, fists clenched and trembling with rage. Before Charles could calm him down – lay a steadying hand on his shoulder – Erik moves forward and says, “ _Shut the fuck up._ ”

Charles winces. Sharon gasps. “Excuse me?”

“I said shut up. You have no right to say those things about Charles,” Erik snarls. “He's _brilliant._ You don't know what you're talking about.” Charles hasn't heard that tone from Erik in a while – he wonders if it's a conscious decision made by Erik to step between him and Sharon, or if that's instinctual. Whatever it is, Charles feels quite... grateful, somewhat. “You don't deserve your son,” Erik concludes, and that makes Charles' slightly warmer once more.

“He is my son,” Sharon says, affronted. “And he has yet to measure up.”

There's truth in that statement. If anything, it makes Charles think. This is Sharon. And Charles is her son. Things are never going to change.

A _good_ different, Charles tells himself, steeling his heart for the inevitable, and lets cold focus flow through him as he steps forward to take Erik's hand. “Stop it, Erik,” he says, with a calm he doesn't quite feel. Yet.

“But–” Erik says, indignant, “Charles–“

“You're right, mother,” Charles offers, and next to him he hears Erik sputter. “I'm indeed your son.”

Sharon's nostrils flare as she nods. “You should do well to embody that.”

“And if that's not enough for you,” Charles continues, heart thudding in his chest, but his voice is steady, gaining strength. He still hasn't let go of Erik's hand, he realises, and Erik's letting him hold on. What a strange, comforting thought that is. “If you don't feel like you deserve this,” deserve _me,_ “It's because you never truly wanted to. You never could.”

“How did you become this insolent?“ Sharon begins.

Charles closes his eyes and says something he's wanted to say for years. “Sometimes I pity you, mother.” He means to say it coldly, but what comes out instead is sympathetic and sad. Maybe for Sharon that's even worse.

Sharon snaps her mouth shut, her face flushing red. Then she glares, first at Charles, then at the hand he's holding. He _still_ hasn't let go of Erik, Charles thinks, a bit dizzy and light-headed, a lot of conflicting emotions crashing into each other in his mind. And, finally, finally, without saying another word – without a sound or a slap or a painful rebuke, Sharon turns and walks away.

After the clack of Sharon's heels can no longer be heard, Charles practically collapses. “I shouldn't have done that,” Charles gasps. His blood is rapidly draining from his face, and his fingers grasping Erik's fist begin to unfurl. “That was so... so unkind. Unprofessional.”

“No,” Erik says, catching his hand and refusing to let go, and that stops the free-falling terror short. There's a small smile playing upon his lips. Charles is desperate to know what it means. But then Erik reaches out to run his fingers through Charles' hair, and Charles' breath hitches.

“So, I'm 'brilliant', you said?” Charles says, a bit weakly.

Erik keeps smiling. “You're perfect,” he declares, and he sounds like he truly, amazingly, believes it.

 

 

Now that the big performance is over, the band hardly needs Charles any more, flourishing under Erik's deft guidance. Charles had – has – complete faith in Erik's ability to lead (after some adjustments, surely), but it really leaves no room for himself within the whole structure. And now that Erik's seen him play – it's not like there's a whole lot else Charles can offer him. Charles begins to feel a bit lost.

Well. There's still sex on Saturdays. There's still that.

He glances at the green clock on the wall. Still a couple hours before he's expected, so Charles just yawns and pads to the kitchen for a drink. He'll pick up some gyros for breakfast later at Erik's house. Erik really likes gyros.

But then the doorbell rings, and when Charles goes to answer, Erik is standing there looking sinfully edible in a blue henley and dark trousers, the ones that Charles remembers mentioning he liked.

“Erik?” Charles says. “What are you doing here?”

“It's Saturday,” Erik says. “We hang out on Saturday.” He sort of – there's not other word for it – shimmies on the spot, fumbling with something unseen. One of his hands is hidden from sight, holding something behind him – there's a rustle of plastic somewhere Charles can't see.

“But it's my house,” Charles says, confused, but he steps back to let Erik in. “We're supposed to be at your house. Besides, it's two hours early.”

“It doesn't really matter whose house or what time it is, does it?” Erik mutters, scratching the back of his neck.

“No, I suppose not,” Charles agrees, and Erik grins. It's kind of shaky. “You alright?” Charles asks. Then he peeks around Erik to see just what it is he's hiding. Erik twists to avoid his curious gaze, but he's not quite fast enough. Charles' eyes widen. “Is that – are those daffodils? Erik, why are there daffodils?”

Erik looks disgruntled, though he turns a bit pink in the face. It's adorable, to be honest, which is not really something Charles associates with Erik.

Slowly Erik brings the bouquet forward and offers it to Charles – awkwardly, like he's brandishing a sword instead of half a dozen yellow flowers. “They're yours if you want,” he says, looking rather uneasy. _Very_ uneasy, in fact. Charles only wishes he can read what Erik's thinking.

Erik's silent for a long moment, gazing at Charles with something indescribable brewing behind his eyes. When Charles' palm closes around the bouquet, Erik leans forward for a kiss, a nice soft kiss that's less about pleasure but more about connection, or intimacy or something. The kind where you say things without saying them – Charles doesn't know what, exactly, but it's all just very sweet and shy and lovely.

So Charles grins up at him when they part, and Erik offers a similar breathless grin in return. He's so incandescently happy, Charles thinks, joy and relief (for _what_?) suffusing Charles' telepathy even without him needing to reach out. It's really hard to stay out, right then and there, but for the sake of that joy Charles is intent on respecting Erik's boundaries.

The daffodils stay in a vase on Charles' dining table until they begin to wilt, at which point Erik brings another bouquet to replace them. Over the next few weeks – a month, two – Charles begins to see Erik for reasons other than band practice (Erik still wants him there, imagine that) or sex.

There's that time with the film festival (though they almost got banned – which, well, sex wasn't the intention _at first_ ). And several dinners, ranging from hole-in-wall to fancy, the latter usually preceding a swanky orchestra. Chinese take-out and a long list of movies, throwing popcorn at the screen during the corny lines ( _I like you very much, just as you are_ , Erik murmurs along to Colin Firth. _Bridget Jones is shite,_ Charles complains, his head on Erik's shoulder). Then waffles for breakfast. Plus boxes of chocolate, both given and received. A very nice walk along Carson Beach, gathering seashells barefoot, holding hands the whole time, followed by sand in uncomfortable places ( _so_ worth it though). One memorable occasion when they pretended to be foreign street performers, terrorising all the international students at Harvard ( _Stop laughing so much_ , Charles hisses. _No - nein!_ Erik says, before dissolving into peals of laughter).

Then, the weekend road trip to Maine, lying around on the grass one night in Acadia with Erik gazing at him and smiling like he's just won the whole world.

“You're being so nice lately,” Charles whispers with a small, honest smile of his own. “Who are you and what have you done to Erik Lehnsherr?”

“Sorry, still me,” Erik says, chuckling, tugging at Charles' wrist to pull him close and closer still. Later, when they're naked and gasping, skin sliding against skin, bodies intertwined and practically inseparable, everything about him becomes so tender, so perfect, that it almost hurts.

Nothing's really changed; they're just happier now. Charles figures it's meant to be like this all along. Good friends, he supposes. Who have sex really excellently and frequently, the full spectrum from saccharine to _outrageously depraved._

(Charles will try anything twice: first to see if he likes it, and second to see whether he was wrong the first time. It's the physicality of it; whether it's a feather-light dance of fingers or the searing crack of a whip, sex is when Charles feels most at home in his body. The more intense the physical sensation the better.

And the things he does with Erik is... well, more than intense. Charles has never needed a safeword before, but Erik insisted, and now they have a rotating vocabulary inventory. One of them is 'honkadonk', which Charles figures is really effective as far as sex deterrents go, except one time when he actually had to use it and it wasn't as funny. But then Erik wiped his tears away with kisses, so gently and carefully, murmuring apologies and assurances and poetry into his skin, and it wasn't so bad any more).

Good friends indeed. Erik's never really said anything to contradict their friendship status, so Charles doesn't either. It's not like he needs to – whatever it is works.

He kind of wishes he's allowed to read Erik's mind, though. He's always too nervous to ask, even more nervous now that their friendship is going really well. Maybe someday, he thinks. Or maybe not.

 

 

Raven stays over, sometime in early June. Erik's away for a week for his foster mother's birthday, so Charles is glad for the company. Even if all Raven does is sleep and watch television and pillage his food stores. Charles mentions as much, as Raven cackles and smacks him in the stomach. Charles is really happy she's here.

“How's your boyfriend?” she says, on the third day of her stay.

Charles wrinkles his nose at her. “I don't have a boyfriend.” Really, for a telepath relationship categorisations are kind of pointless. What people feel is usually really complex and summing that up in a word or two never really felt right for Charles. It just seems limiting.

Raven's eye twitches violently. She opens her mouth, closes it again – this happens a few times, but in the end she doesn't comment. So Charles ignores her in favour of replying to Erik's text message.

The next few days, whenever she looks at him it's like she's trying not to laugh.

“What?” Charles blurts when he can't handle any more of her knowing glances.

Raven squirms, lips twitching. “Talked to Erik lately?”

“You know we chat every day.” Come to think of it, that's rather often, isn't it?

“Yeah but have you _talked_? Or, I don't know, whatever you do with your mind-whammy.” She wiggles her fingers next to her ear to demonstrate 'mind-whammy'.

“Well,” Charles says. “Not mind-whammy.” He's actually kind of bummed about it.

Raven offers him a sympathetic smile. “Ask him, Charles.”

 

 

Come Thursday, Erik returns from Warsaw with a giant bag of souvenirs – mainly food and small trinkets that he says remind him of Charles. Erik really likes giving Charles things, come to think of it. Charles isn't opposed to that at all. They open the bag together, side-by-side on the couch, laying souvenirs on Charles' coffee table one by one while Erik explains what and where and why. And then, at the bottom of the bag, is a set of spools and violin strings.

Charles lifts them up very, very carefully.

“Gut and steel wound core,” Erik says. “I made them myself. There's a famous luthier in Florence who cuts his own strings, and I learnt from him.” He takes Charles' left hand and opens his palm, kissing the callused tips of his fingers. “You said your newest set is rough on your fingers. I promise these won't be.”

“Erik...” Charles murmurs. His fingers run through the thinnest of the strings, eyes getting a little bit damp. Erik went out of his way to _Italy_ for him. Erik learnt how to wound violin strings for _him_.

“You like them?” Erik says.

“This is...” Just about the nicest, most thoughtful present anyone has ever given him. And if Erik can do this, Charles can surely ask. He sets the spool on the table, next to the other souvenirs, and his hand settles on his lap, where it twists, wringing the cloth of his trousers nervously. “Erik, before I say anything about this, can I ask you something else?”

Erik looks at his jittery hand, then back at his face with concern. “Shoot.”

Just say it, Charles, he thinks to himself. Just ask. “Can I read your mind?”

Erik blinks. “Wait,” Erik says slowly. “I thought you've been reading my mind the whole time.” He's frowning and looking adorably confused. Also, steadily more and more aghast.

Charles shakes his head. “I haven't – not deeply, not since... you know, the party.”

“The party – that party when _we first met?!_ ” Now it's just pure horror. Charles would find that amusing if he wasn't so nervous. But then Erik's hands shoot out to grasp Charles' shoulders. “Read my mind. Now.”

That's... probably more enthusiasm than is warranted. Certainly more than he expects to get from Erik under normal circumstances. Charles quirks a brow. “You sure? You were pretty adamant about me staying out."

“Sorry,” Erik says guiltily. “Yes, I'm very sure.”

Charles does. And what he finds is... he's glad he's sitting down, because he's not sure his knees are strong enough to stand now. “Oh,” Charles says, dumbstruck. This idiotic man.

“Yeah,” Erik says. His gaze skitters away, nervous and darting, looking at everything and anything but Charles.

 _I didn't know,_ Charles sends, rather helplessly, and Erik actually flinches. Then his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he bites down in nervousness. Though Erik didn't use to bite his lips whenever he's nervous. That's more Charles' thing. “ _Oh,_ ” Charles repeats, voice barely above a breath. This stupid, idiotic man.

“Stop saying that.” Erik looks a bit hunted now, a terrified creature ready to scamper away at a moment's notice. This stupid, idiotic, _darling_ man.

“I can't believe you still –“ Charles says, mouth moving on automatic. “You really need to learn to say things out loud, you know?”

Then his lips drift shut, slowly, throat thick and clamping shut. His mind is still reelingfrom the wealth of emotion that emanates from Erik. There's just so much of it, of them, the feelings enormous, almost overflowing, and still expanding even more. It's so warm. And sweet. And so, so beautiful, not that Erik's mind wasn't beautiful before, but this is something else entirely. Charles feels like he could cry, really – Erik is – he really does --

“Well?” Erik grouses.

“Well what?” Charles murmurs, still in a hypnotised half-trance.

“Well, do you like the strings or not?” Erik's voice is demanding and rather gravely. By now Charles knows he sounds like that whenever he's scared.

He really doesn't have to be. “I do, Erik,” Charles says, drawing himself back to the physical world, a nameless feeling rattling in his chest when he sees Erik breathe a huge sigh of relief, all the tension draining out of him. But Charles isn't done speaking. “Of course I do, but–”

Erik – all poised and smug and _happy_ , now – lays a finger on his lips and shakes his head, a grin unfurling upon his face. “No buts. No take-backs.”

“I'm not taking anything back. But,” Charles presses on, despite the soft kisses Erik's planting all over his face, “Why do I get the feeling that you're not talking about my violin at all?” Charles murmurs dryly. His heart is fluttering within his ribcage, beating strong and fast and actually kind of alright.

“That's because you're absolutely right,” Erik says. And then he leans forward, intent on capturing Charles' lips.

“Wait, wait,” Charles says, hands clamping on either side of Erik's head. Because this feels kind of quick. Which isn't strictly true, but Charles is still kind of processing the enormity of what Erik's feeling. And he can't help but feel like there should be a ceremony or something.

“What, do I have to talk about this too?” Erik mumbles, a bit petulantly, but his lips are twitching.

Charles huffs. “Would be polite – have you never been in a functional adult relationship?”

“Like you have.” Erik rolls his eyes. “But if you insist.” And then he lowers his head, pressing his forehead against Charles', arms curving around to envelop Charles' body. _Where they're meant to be,_ Charles can't help but think, and judging from Erik's widening smile he's heard the echo of that in his mind. _This is perfect,_ Charles thinks, and Erik practically melts. “Charles,” he whispers, right against Charles' lips, the emotion in his voice almost unbearable. “I want to kiss you.”

His mind is pulsing with something _more_ , something warm and precious and bright.

But Erik's not done. He then murmurs, adorably shy, “Kiss me, please?”

Charles really can't do anything else but.

 

 


End file.
